Prophecy of the Dragon

The reddish dragon sneered down at the armored human beneath him, who had just asked him about the stupidest prophecy of which he had ever heard. Ludicrous!

“Well, I don’t believe in prophecies,” said the Dragon.

The Hero, taken back by the serpent’s response to his challenge of untimely death and unavoidable denouement, could only stare at the thing, his enchanted blade poised to strike.

“In fact,” continued the red-hued wyrm, “I think prophecies are over-rated, shamanistic drivel about times and events that meant little to whichever prophet or wizard dredged it up in the first place.”

The Dragon paused, adjusting the spectacles clinging to its knobby nose. “Furthermore,” it said, “I think it is overly ambitious and completely ludicrous that someone would take to heart the abstract ruminations of long dead scholars and sages who were probably socially inept recluses and libidinous defects in the first place. I mean, really, I wouldn’t take the opinion of someone like that as solemn truth? Would you? Oh…well, obviously you did. You’re here now.”

The Hero wrinkled his brow, and still refrained from striking.

The Dragon sniffed and put down its book— Aspirations of Grandeur and Its Social Implications— and stared quietly at the man before it, tail flicking and tapping the ruddy walls of its cavern home and the immense pile of gold and gems upon which it rested.

“You see my point, don’t you?” said the Dragon. “My words have at least delayed your mighty blow, and despite your obvious intentions, and the sloped brow indicating your less than average intelligence, you must realize in some obscure fragment of your brain that I’m right. Prophecies are overused devices to propagate paranoia, unrest, confusion— even plotlines, for Goodness’s sake—and altogether make a mess of things that would otherwise be embarrassingly simple.

“For instance,” continued the mammoth wyrm, “would you REALLY have come here, of your own free will and volition, if you had not been told by some dusty old stick-in-the-mud mystic that your Legacy and Fate lay in the ‘Slaying of the Great Wyrm of Scarvoss’ or some such nonsense like that. Would you have? Hmm? I think not. Not even for a barbaric individual such as yourself. I know you can see at least an inkling of the point I’m trying to make. It’s obvious in those eyes of yours. Makes one’s head hurt, yes?”

The Hero did not answer, but he did lower his blade so that the tip rested on the ground. He gazed up at the coiled wyrm, his eyebrows furrowed in thought.

The Dragon shifted its bulk, dislodging a cascade of precious gems and gold with a melodic tinkle. The Hero looked down at the shimmering wealth that rolled between his legs like churning froth upon the seashore.

“Oh, pardon me,” apologized the Dragon. “I can be somewhat untidy. I mean, look at this cavern; untold wealth laying everywhere. Well, not untold per se—thirty thousand pieces of gold from various mints and kingdoms; ten thousand pieces of silver; two hundred and five platinum goblets, one hundred and sixty eight candelabras, seventy five diamonds, fifty four rubies, ten enchanted swords— two of which dance by themselves and another that sings in staccato voce— three enchanted shields, nine magic daggers, two very, very nice gauntlets of exquisite make and mettle, and one magic mirror that makes you look nice even if you’re as ugly as the Glowmo in the morning. Oh, and a magic hairbrush that combs all by itself. Of course, I don’t have much need for that, other than a backscratcher.”

The Dragon paused, peering down at a chalice that lay between the Hero’s feet. It pushed its glasses up and squinted. “Oh my. I don’t remember this one.”

It retrieved the golden chalice and inspected it closely, turning the thing around in its sharp talons, sniffing it, and then chucked it over its shoulder into the pile.

“Not bad,” said the Dragon. “It will certainly help round out the collection.” The Great Wyrm shifted its bulk again, and then peered at the Hero’s broadsword.

“And what have we here?” murmured the Dragon. “That is quite an impressive weapon. Look at how it shines in the dim light of my gloomy home. One would think the sun itself had found its way inside and said ‘Hello’!”

The Hero looked down at his sword. He shrugged, and opened his mouth to respond but the Dragon cut him off with a raspy whip of its wings and a wagging finger.

“No need for excuses. I am quite sure your wonderful Prophecy helped with that too. Mayhap you found it in the depths of a volcano, or the tomb of a ghost, or the vault of Mad King Gling IV, or the tower of a fair maiden princess pining for her chivalrous rescue. Any of those…maybe…perhaps? Well, it doesn’t matter. May I see that if you don’t mind?”

The Dragon did not wait for an answer. It plucked the sword from the Hero’s bewildered hands and held it up to its toothy snout, sniffing it with light bursts of sulfurous smoke and tiny flames.

“Very nice,” said the great wyrm. “Seems to be a Slayer design. One can tell from the peculiar engravings along the blade, and this little twirl here on the hilt. See? Very nice indeed. One rarely finds such a blade nowadays.”

The Dragon squinted, peering down at the Hero like a shrewd merchant with a deliciously lucrative plan. “Say now,” continued the Dragon, “you wouldn’t be interested in a trade, would you? Before you say ‘No’, just hear me out. Your potent blade for two of mine. Or, your weapon for one of my swords, plus a shield and dagger thrown in to boot. Perhaps? That’s quite a good deal. I neglected to mention that one of my shields has a wonderful mirror on the inside, so one can admire oneself day in and day out. Of course, it’s cursed, and that’s ALL you will do, but it’s a wonderful shield nonetheless. What do you say?”

The Dragon handed the sword back to the Hero and tapped its mighty talons together, peering down its long nose at the man before it.

The Hero blinked. He looked at the sword in his hand, and then at the Great Wyrm of Scarvoss sitting upon its hoard.

The Wyrm smiled, revealing rows upon rows of razor sharp teeth and a serpentine tongue that languidly tasted the hot air.

The Hero glanced at the treasure resting beneath the Dragon’s hefty bulk; the innumerable discs of glimmering gold, (well, thirty thousand, to be exact) the untarnished silver, the goblets and swords and daggers and shields, and all the other exquisite knick knacks with rare and wondrous magical perks.

The Dragon tapped its talons together, awaiting an answer of some kind, claws clicking in the vastness of the creature’s home like some distant miner’s pick.

“WELL?” demanded the Dragon with another burst of putrid sulfur.

The muscled Hero gazed around again, his sloped forehead furrowed in thought, brown hands trembling with the promise of wealth and prestige, fame and fortune that could be gained…if only one had the proper aptitude.

Then, with a battle cry that shook to the roof of the cave, so loud and fierce it nearly rattled the spectacles from the Dragon’s nose, the Hero lifted his mighty blade with a whirl and twirl of impressive talent, spun it ‘round twice and thrust it into the belly of the wyrm.

Enchanted metal sunk deep. The Great Wyrm of Scarvoss made a strange face, its left eye twitching, its long nose quivering, and threw its head back in an anguished howl. Furnace-hot flames blasted to the roof, and an inferno of melted rock and shattered stone rained down upon them like clumps of burning sky.

The injured wyrm arched its back, twitched its tail, and with a most impressive convulsion and flap of its wings, keeled over with a thunderous crash, right atop the Hero before he could escape.

Coins and goblets, swords and shields twisted and splattered every direction as the great beast toppled from its nest. It struck the ground with a heavy smack, and the terrible blade that had rent its scales and belly open like so much warm butter, flew away with a rattle and clank.

The wyrm lay there a moment, rivulets of smoke streaming from flared nostrils and slack mouth, its eyes droopy and lids half-closed. From beneath its barreled red chest, stretched the arm of the Hero.

Then the Dragon twitched a little, rolled its eyes, and flicked its tail with a weak, dying jerk. It looked down and saw the arm, and could just barely feel the soft lump beneath it. Then it saw the terrible blade lying not far away, steaming innocently with the Dragon’s blood.

The great beast sighed, a terrible lethargy creeping upon it. Its eyesight darkened, its pulse weakened, and the gleam of precious gold sequestered away with centuries of jealous perfection faded from sight.

But the wyrm did manage to open its mouth, and taking a deep, excruciating breath, said to the squished man below—

“Did your stupid Prophecy see THAT coming?”

Then it fell dead.

THE END

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This story is VERY old; 21 years and counting. I added to my blog as well, not because I think it's great (it's not) but just as an example of some early endeavors I had practically forgotten about.